


October 1974

by Theeniebean



Category: Life on Mars & Related Fandoms, Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-12
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2019-05-05 16:23:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14622507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theeniebean/pseuds/Theeniebean
Summary: Alcohol does wonders, but so does cooking.





	October 1974

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again friends. Still feeling out the territory. Please offer constructive criticisms if you have any. (Sorry, this was also fueled by my own alcohol party.)

They stumbled over the threshold of Gene's marital home, hands on shoulders, all material and no flesh. Two mates, nothing more, propping each other up; arguing about something inane and totally irrelevant, forgotten come dawn. Sam's leather jacket quickly discarded over the foot of the stairs, Gene's coat more casually slung over the banister. The kitchen, all polyurethane and, to Sam's mind, retro and oddly clean, though the bin was littered with takeaway cartons and bottles piled to the side. 

"So I was sayin' that Dirty Pete, the div, I was sayin'-" Gene continued, pouring drinks quite liberally, scowling as a slosh of liquid spilled itself over the side of Sam's glass as he passed it over. Sam grinned, licking the remnants off of his fingers as he raised the rim to his lips. "I was sayin'. Oh bugger." Gene eyed his own glass for a moment, blinders on. The story took a backseat to the measure of whiskey. 

Sam laughed, slamming himself down against the vinyl chair. He felt as though he was in some theme diner, waiting with baited breath for a tarted up waitress to saunter up to them with a snap of her bubble gum - or was that a fifties stereotype? Shit - he couldn't remember. They all sort of blended together. It was about as likely either way, given that he was firmly parked in Gene's home and not some public establishment. A random woman would be cause for alarm, no matter the decade. 

"I could murder a sarnie right now," He offered instead, peering around the room as though food might materialize. Gene grinned, hair in some state of disarray. His shirt was missing a few buttons, or maybe they were just undone - Sam couldn't really tell. 

"Just your luck, Dorothy - kitchen's open, should you have the skills." He twisted, and somehow the loaf of bread materialized into his hands. "Bacon's just-" He skipped a statement as Sam used him as leverage to stand back up, opening up the refrigerator. Bacon sarnies, enough for many a man, or at least himself and Gene, though the latter was at least three men in terms of bacon consumption. He ran the math and frowned idly. It was a good idea for this time of night and this period of inebriation, regardless. Sam might've been muttering to himself as he rifled through the fridge, as Gene stole his chair and started making untoward comments that he couldn't quite translate. Possibly not the correct amount of sobriety to be handing a gas cooker, but also, he really wanted a sarnie. 

"I thought you was against anything with grease in the general sense." Gene waved his hand about, somehow not spilling a drop of the amber drink in his hand. Sam wiggled himself, intensely feeling his hips as he melted butter in the skillet, liberal with his usage in a way that would offend his arteries at any other time.

Dropping bacon in the pan, he grinned. "There tends to be exceptions to the rules after the amount of alcohol I've imbibed." He waved to the tune of a beat he couldn't quite hear, squinting at the pork in the pan. Did he just put it in? Or was it a few minutes ago. Gene was at his back, breath thick against his neck - was his hand on the skillet too? He couldn't tell for more than a few seconds at a time, not with his DCI pushing a whiskey shot into his spare hand and a pressure against his back. Gene was definitely against him, chin on his shoulder, speaking some sort of gravelly sense at him.

"You're burning it." Gene muttered against his ear, lifting the pan on his own, though the metal still warmed Sam's palm. Together, they guided the skillet off the flame and somehow ended up with a sarnie each - neither quite entirely sure how the middle steps transpired, but satisfied with the result as they reclined in their chairs after separating.

Sam propped himself up, elbow on the tabletop. "What was dicky, shit uh. Dirty? Who was it?" Gene waved a hand, muttering a 'fuck if I know' as he micromanaged the butty in one hand and the whiskey in the other. The lights hummed above them, and the appliances whirled in a heavy way that Sam had yet to grown accustom to. He leaned in, squinting at his guv, dripping bacon grease on the tabletop, saying some sort of nonsense that he couldn't for the life of him actually translate to rational statements. He belatedly hoped he wouldn't get punched, but he wasn't sure why he would, unless he'd said something... His brain tallied literally anything that could be chalked to "poncey Hyde shit" and braced for impact.

Gene raised his eyebrows, leaning in himself, whiskey against his lips as he took the measure of Sam at the same time as the measure swam down his throat. Sam felt a leg against his own under the table, and a confusing amount of lips. This was probably alright, as long as they'd actually removed the pan from the hob. Had they? Shit. He couldn't recall. Mind, it was Gene's house, so if it burned down, that was mostly on him - and then there was a hand on his cheek and he forgot how to use his brain for a moment. 

Gene held his face as steady as he could, given how drunk they were. "Alright?" The DCI asked, the severity of the question dripping through the wallpaper. Sam nodded. 

Suddenly, there were stairs. Lights, flicked on and off. A bed.

And then the dawn, peeking through the windows, the cracks of the curtains searing like death rays. The harsh light of morning burning against his brain. Gene, to his right, out to the world, naked as the day he was born. Sam hummed, internally, deciding to sleep it off against the other man's chest - in for a penny, after all.


End file.
